by Greg Cox
The nightmarish clamor woke Strasba from its peaceful repose. Candles flared to life behind the second-story windows of the shops, where the craftsmen and their families dwelt. Muffled voices cried out in alarm. Wooden shutters opened briefly, then slammed shut again as shocked villagers glimpsed the fearsome war party riding into their town. “God preserve us!” a frightened housewife exclaimed. “It is the undying ones!”
Viktor came to a halt in the market square before the row of shops. The upper stories of the wooden structures jutted out over the storefronts below, obscuring the sky. Cloves of garlic hung from the rough-hewn crosses nailed to every door.
As if that will save them, Lucian thought scornfully. It amazed him that the ignorant humans still placed their faith in such talismans. Old myths die hard, it seems.
“Who goes there?” A grizzled night watchman, possessing more duty than sense, came running toward them, raising his lantern before him. A kettle helmet surmounted his head, and he clutched a pike in one hand. Iron, not silver, tipped the point of the pike.
“I said, who goes—” The watchman’s voice fell silent as he got a better look at the armored horsemen and the monstrous werewolf at their side. The color drained from his face as he squinted up at the pale faces of the riders, with their luminous blue eyes and flashing fangs. “Holy Mother of God!”
His pike and lantern crashed to the ground, sending up a geyser of sparks. Abandoning his post, the panicked watchman turned and ran for his life.
Nicolae laughed merrily. “Permit me, Lord Viktor,” he volunteered, spurring his horse forward. He raised his lance and charged after the hapless mortal, who did not even make it to the end of the road before being impaled on the point of Nicolae’s lance. The vampire prince tilted the lance upward, inspecting the skewered human as he might a morsel of meat at a banquet. “If this wretch is what passes for a soldier around here,” Nicolae remarked, “then tonight’s outing is going to be even more of a slaughter than I imagined.”
He casually tossed the lance, along with its victim, into the dirt before him. Whimpers of pain reached Lucian’s tufted ears, suggesting that the dying watchman still clung to life.
More fool he.
Nicolae was clearly having a grand time, but Viktor’s voice was all seriousness as he addressed the company. “By their perfidy, the mortals of this village have forfeited their protection under the Covenant. Tonight—and only tonight—the prohibition on slaying humans is lifted. Feast as you will, Death Dealers. Slake your thirst with the lifeblood of these unworthy mortals. Only remember this: the monk is mine!”
With an enthusiastic cheer, the other vampires leaped from their mounts, handing over the reins to a lowly squire, only recently initiated into the coven. Swords drawn, the Death Dealers invaded the shops and residences, battering down doors and charging up stairs. Within moments, bloodcurdling screams erupted from behind the shuttered windows. Lucian heard the crash of toppled furniture and the sounds of short, unequal struggles. The high-pitched shrieks of men, women, and children blended into a cacophony of fear and torment.
A heavy body came smashing through the shutters above a bakery, as though flung by a catapult. The body, which belonged to that of a portly human roughly forty years of age, arced through the air before crashing to earth not far from Lucian. The man’s heart was missing, and his lifeless face was frozen in a look of utter agony. Broken ribs protruded from the gaping hole in his chest.
A moment later, Nicolae appeared in the very window through which the dead baker had been propelled. The undead prince had discarded his helmet, revealing his flowing golden ringlets. Blood streaked his chin, spilling over onto his crimson surcoat. Unholy mirth set his azure eyes aglow as he effortlessly leaped from the upper story to the street below.
A trophy of sorts dangled from his grip: the severed head of a young woman, whose auburn locks were wrapped around Nicolae’s fist. “Look what I found in the baker’s bed,” he quipped, holding up the head for all to see. “She’s far too pretty, don’t you think, for that fat bag of suet?” He kissed the maid’s dead lips, then flung the head over his shoulder into the muck. “Hail and farewell, my sweet!”
Nicolae obviously regarded the raid as a rare lark. No doubt, Lucian surmised, the jaded prince saw massacring humans as merely another form of hedonistic indulgence, like hawking or whoring.
But he was hardly the only Death Dealer living up to the name tonight. More bodies came flying out of the windows above, raining down on the rutted dirt roads like slop from a chamber pot. “Gardy loo!” Vayer shouted from another window before hurling someone’s elderly grandmother to her death. The old woman’s dying wail terminated abruptly as she hit the ground headfirst. Lucian guessed that the crone’s aged blood had been too thin and feeble to tempt Vayer, not when younger and more potent vintages were free for the taking.
Other mortals attempted to escape the invading vampires, fleeing out into the road in various states of dishabille. Frantic mothers clutched their babies to their chests, only to be ravished in the street by Kraven and his fellow soldiers. Lucian saw two vampires feast simultaneously on a single plump townswoman, their fangs embedded in her throat and breast, while a squalling infant flailed in the mud only a few feet away. A moment later, a third vampire snatched the babe up by its arm and crunched its tiny neck between her jaws. The thirsty Death Dealer sucked the blood from the infant’s body in a single gulp, then tossed the lifeless body aside like an empty wineskin. Unsated, the vampire dashed into the nearest hut, looking for yet another unwilling donor.
Lucian watched the carnage from the Elder’s side. Part of him was tempted to join in the bloodletting, tantalized by so much fresh human meat and marrow waiting to be devoured, but his more civilized instincts were troubled by the rampant butchery going on all around him. He thought he recognized a few faces and scents from the ambush at the keep, but it was difficult to be certain. Could any crime, no matter how heinous, justify such an atrocity?
Doubt plagued him, until he recalled more fully the recent attacks on both the castle and the caravan. He saw again Nasir’s throat speared by a peasant’s arrow, saw Lady Ilona dragged from her horse and beheaded by a mob of wild-eyed humans. He remembered Sonja spread-eagled upon the ground, only moments away from decapitation herself, and his pity for the terrified villagers evaporated completely.
These are but mortals after all, he thought. What did their mayfly existences matter compared with the security of the coven? The Elder knew what he was doing. Sonja will never be truly safe unless this village is made an example of.
“Goddamn monsters! You’ll pay for your deviltry!”
Lucian turned to see a strapping male villager come charging out of the door of a butcher’s shop. A bloodstained cleaver was clutched in his hand, and madness blazed in his eyes. “Demons!” he roared. “You slew my Anna!”
The werewolf knew not who Anna was, nor did he care. All that mattered to him was the memory of Sonja lying in her mother’s blood, while humans like this one sought to sever her lovely head from her body. A snarl burst from Lucian’s snout as he pounced forward to meet the oncoming butcher. His forepaws hit the villager head-on, knocking the brawny mortal onto his back. Lucian crouched atop the downed butcher. His claws raked the man’s bare chest, digging bloody gashes in the fragile flesh of the human, who hacked at Lucian with his cleaver in desperation.
The edged steel bit into the werewolf’s shoulder, but Lucian barely felt the pain. His powerful jaws chomped down on the butcher’s wrist, and the cleaver went flying away, taking the man’s right hand with it. An agonized scream tore itself free from the villager’s lungs right before Lucian disemboweled him with a single swipe of his claws. The heap of steaming entrails was too savory to resist, and Lucian dug his snout into the spilled viscera, gulping down the man’s organs with rapacious zeal. The hot, fresh, bloody meat was infinitely tastier than the cold, uncooked mutton that was his usual fare back at the castle. He could not help wonder
ing if Brother Ambrose’s fellow monks had tasted half so delectable.
Small wonder the renegades clung to their predatory habits with such fervor.
“That’s enough, werewolf,” Viktor commanded, calling Lucian back to his side. The Elder remained astride his horse, observing the slaughter with icy detachment. “You there,” he called out to the nearest Death Dealer, whom Lucian recognized as Kraven. Blood trickled from the corners of the Englishman’s mouth as he lapped at the neck of the half-dead maiden he was holding in his arms. “Attend me.”
Kraven dropped the chalky white body onto the ground. “Yes, your lordship!” he said promptly, hurrying over to Viktor’s side. His eagerness to curry the Elder’s favor was almost comically obvious. “How might I serve you, Elder?”
“Fetch me a living tongue,” Viktor instructed, “while there is still one to be had.” Impatience colored his voice, as though the sacking of the village had not yet appeased him. “There are questions that require answers.”
“At once, Lord Viktor!” Kraven exclaimed. All thought of his nubile prey forgotten, he darted into a nearby hovel, only to emerge moments later dragging a whimpering peasant by the collar. He threw the wretch onto the ground in front of Viktor’s steed. “Kneel, varlet!”
Viktor nodded in approval. “Tell me, swine,” he addressed the cowering mortal. “Where is the monk, Brother Ambrose?”
The peasant ignored the Elder’s query. Clutching a string of rosary beads, he prayed frantically instead. “Holy Father, deliver me from the demons of darkness, deliver me, deliver me, deliver me…!”
“Answer the Elder, knave!” Kraven snapped at the man. He reached down and yanked a fistful of hair from the man’s scalp. His nails dug painfully into the man’s shoulder. “Answer the question, or I swear that hell will be a blessed relief by comparison!”
“The church!” the peasant blurted. Blood from his torn scalp dripped down his face. “God forgive me… the holy brother is in the church!”
“How predictable,” Viktor observed. He nodded at Kraven. “Dispose of the blackguard.”
Kraven obliged by twisting the mortal’s head until his neck snapped. The dead peasant fell face-forward into the mud. “Done, your lordship,” Kraven boasted as he blithely wiped the mortal’s stink from his hands. “Your wish is my command!”
“As well it should be,” Viktor replied drily.
He turned Hades toward the church at the other end of the village’s main road. The horse reared up on his hind legs as the Elder exhorted the Death Dealers to continue their pillaging. “Kill them all!” he commanded. “Leave not a soul alive, not even a single babe!”
He galloped rapidly down the road with both Lucian and Kraven chasing behind him. Lucian kept one eye on the ambitious young Death Dealer, just in case Kraven got careless with his weapons again; he had not yet forgiven the English vampire for nearly sending a silver crossbow bolt through his skull.
The humble parish church was the only stone structure in Strasba. A single bell tower rose above the church’s steeply gabled roof. A pair of oak doors barred the entrance, at least in theory. Here, too, garlic and hawthorn branches had been strung up in a pathetic attempt to keep out the Devil’s minions.
Arriving at the front steps of the church, Viktor swiftly dismounted and strode up to the sealed double doors. He impatiently tore down the meaningless talismans and pounded on the heavy doors with his fist. “Open up!” he shouted. “I, Lord Viktor of Moldavia, demand it!”
When no one responded, he threw his shoulder against the doors, which went flying off their hinges to land with a crash in the church’s vestibule. Viktor looked back over his shoulder to see if Lucian was still accompanying him. “Faster, wolf!” he beckoned. “With luck, I shall require your services posthaste.”
Yes, Elder! Lucian thought. He bounded up the steps on all fours and followed Viktor into the murky interior of the church. Moonlight poured through stained-glass windows, much as it had at the ruined abbey a month ago. Kraven came rushing into the church after them, anxious to keep on demonstrating his worth to the Elder. He reminded Lucian of a jackal trailing a stalking lion.
They found Brother Ambrose kneeling before the altar at the far end of the nave. Hearing footsteps behind him, the hooded monk rose to his feet and turned to face the intruders. A simple wooden crucifix rested against the front of his thick black robe. He threw back his hood, revealing a round, red face topped by a tonsured dome.
“Get thee hence, creatures of hell!” If he was surprised to see two vampires and a werewolf striding down the middle of the church, he gave no sign of it. “You cannot set foot within the house of God.”
“Your God cannot save you now, monk,” Viktor declared. He turned toward Lucian, whose purpose on this raid was finally to be fulfilled. “Is this the mortal we seek?”
The werewolf nodded, confirming the monk’s identity. There was no mistaking Brother Ambrose’s florid features and strident voice. Here, Lucian knew, was the prime instigator of all the deadly assaults upon the coven and its members. His hackles rose as he fought an urge to tear the troublesome monk to pieces. It was not his place, however, to wreak vengeance upon Brother Ambrose; that privilege Viktor had reserved for himself.
The monk must have seen the murderous hatred in the werewolf’s eyes—or perhaps he simply remembered the feral werewolves who had devoured his monastic brothers. “Hellhound!” he ranted. “Beast of the Pit… I know your weakness!”
Seizing a silver chalice from the altar, he hurled the vessel at Lucian. The chalice bounced off the werewolf’s snout, leaving a bright red scorch mark behind. Lucian howled in pain and fury. It took all his self-restraint not to pounce on Brother Ambrose and rip out the human’s throat with his teeth. He growled through clenched fangs.
“Hold, wolf!” Viktor commanded, fearing perhaps that Lucian had been provoked too far. Sword in hand, he marched down the aisle toward the altar. “Leave this deluded mortal to me.”
Brother Ambrose thought himself prepared for the Elder as well. Lifting a silver basin from the altar, he flung the bowl’s contents at the advancing vampire. Water splattered against Viktor’s helmet and armor.
“Holy water, demon!” the monk crowed. He stared eagerly at Viktor, as if expecting the vampire to melt away before his very eyes. “Blessed in the name of our Lord!”
Viktor laughed for the first time since hearing of his wife’s death. He lunged forward, knocking the basin from Brother Ambrose’s hands with the flat of his blade. Then he grabbed the wooden crucifix around the monk’s neck and yanked it free. “I’m afraid your scholarly pursuits have led you astray,” he informed the startled monk as he tightened his grip on the useless crucifix, reducing it to splinters before the monk’s eyes. “Silver, yes, at least as far as our brutish vassals are concerned, but the rest of this ridiculous folderol?” He shook his head dismissively. “I fear your faith was sorely misplaced.”
“No… it cannot be,” the shaken monk murmured in dismay. His bright red face went as pale as one of the blood-drained villagers, and he dropped to his knees before the altar. “Lord, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me…”
Viktor sheathed his sword and peered down at Brother Ambrose. Removing his helmet, the Elder exposed his gaunt, clean-shaven features. Sandy blond hair, somewhat darker than his daughter’s, receded from his lofty brow. An aquiline nose distinguished his patrician countenance, which was not nearly so young in appearance as those of Marcus or Amelia. Viktor looked to be roughly fifty years old by mortal standards, although his true age was measured in centuries.
“…Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies…”
A cruel smile lifted the corners of Viktor’s lips. “I am going to give you a chance for life, monk,” he declared, interrupting the stricken mortal’s feverish prayers, “which is more than your demented followers granted my late wife
.”
Grabbing Brother Ambrose by the collar of his robe, he lifted the monk from his kneeling position on the floor. Viktor’s mouth opened wide, and he sank his gleaming fangs into Brother Ambrose’s throat. The monk thrashed wildly, trying to tear himself away from the Elder’s jaws, but Viktor held him fast, his blue eyes blazing as he drank deeply of Brother Ambrose’s blood.
He did not drain the monk completely. After merely a moment, Viktor withdrew his fangs and let his victim collapse onto the floor of the sanctuary. Ashen-faced, Brother Ambrose clutched his throat, then pulled his hand away visibly aghast at the sight of his own blood smeared over his shaking palm. “Sweet Jesus preserve me… the Devil’s mark is upon me!”
“Let me explain the full implications of what has just transpired,” Viktor said calmly, wiping the monk’s blood from his lips. “For most, the bite of an immortal is fatal. Chances are, you shall die a painful death within the hour. But if you are truly fortunate—or unfortunate, depending on your perspective—you shall become a vampire like myself, in which instance you will serve as my slave for all eternity!”
“No!” Brother Ambrose gasped in horror. He turned his panic-stricken eyes heavenward. “Dear God, spare me from becoming the Devil’s pawn! Let not my poor soul be damned forever!”
“Hah!” Kraven snorted at the monk. “An excellent jest, your lordship. A truly inspired revenge.”
Viktor glanced at Kraven. He arched his eyebrow, as though just noticing that the fawning Death Dealer had followed him all the way to the church. “And you are…?”
“Kraven of Leicester, Lord Viktor.” He executed a sweeping bow. “Perhaps you’ve heard, I was instrumental in restoring your daughter to the safety of the coven….”
A choking noise interrupted Kraven’s self-aggrandizing recitation. All eyes turned to Brother Ambrose, who began to convulse violently on the floor. His eyes rolled upward until only the whites could be seen. A bloody froth bubbled past his lips. His spine buckled, so that his back arched above the floor, and his arms and legs jerked as though he were having an epileptic fit. Swollen veins bulged from his neck and forehead, while the bite mark on his throat turned black and gangrenous. His pallid face took on a bluish tint. Wet, gurgling sounds issued from his lungs. Groping fingers grabbed onto the cloth draped over the altar, yanking it from its place. Candlesticks and collection plates clattered to the floor.